


Cause Then I’m Outrunning the Dark

by TheWiseMansFear



Category: OC - Fandom
Genre: M/M, OCs - Freeform, middlehaven
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: Syg has surgery on his leg. Loki finds out about Syg’s mother.For more of these ocs pls vista the hashtags #middlehaven and #sygwarsong on tiktok
Relationships: Syg Warsong/ Loki Hohlt
Kudos: 2





	Cause Then I’m Outrunning the Dark

[Sorry to be wattpadding on main but Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy goes well with this particular angst.]

He was warm and heavy. It was as though he’d been rolled up and microwaved like one of those disgusting burritos Phobus always stunk up the staff-room with. His stomach churned at the thought and his brain buffered, trying to parse out why he felt so--  _ wrong _ .

The answers were there, he could see glimpses of them as they flitted across his mindscape, dark figures dancing behind a thick haze, ghosts of sound and memory. His eyes wanted to open but he couldn’t manage more than a flutter of lids before they rolled back into his skull in a firm denial. 

He tried to move his hands but he couldn’t tell if they’d obeyed or not. His fingers felt strangely absent and his toes felt abnormally far away. And he was tired. Too tired to fight off the fog rolling over his thoughts for much longer.

_ I don’t like this.  _ He threw the thought outward, haphazard and nearly frantic as a small bloom of fear brought cold feeling back to his center. It felt too similar to being strung out on the street, a pathetic prisoner to pain and poverty. He wanted to wake up. He didn’t want to be there again. 

Something nearby moved and he tried his eyes again, desperately wanting to outrun the fog trying to pull him back under. This time not even his lids managed to move. There was a noise, a soft, sad sound, clearly distressed and wholly unfamiliar, yet it felt as though it’d come from him.

And then suddenly his fingers returned from wherever they’d gone as someone else’s wrapped around them. “You’re alright,” that someone assured gently, though the voice was made foreign by the haze binding his bones and pulling him deeper down beneath the frothy senselessness.

There was something important going on. Something he needed to be present for. He needed to think clearly but he couldn’t get out of the grayness. It caught and tangled around his thoughts, cocooning them. He couldn’t find his way out and with one last, strangled whimper, it swallowed him again.

The next time coherency touched him, he came awake to a soft humming. The tune was familiar and sweet, luring his consciousness out from beneath the blanket of sleep. The world was still wobbling and slow, but his limbs were not so leaden. He didn’t attempt to open his eyes this time, not yet. 

He feared that if he looked, the melody would stop and he’d missed it too much to risk that. 

His mother had sung that song, again and again, in a language he’d never quite wrapped his tongue around, leaving him only able to hum it in return. In the mornings the tune had always been giddy, like a child swung in circles and in the evenings it was soft and slow like the gentle back and forth of a rocking chair. When he’d been sick it had been soothing fingers in his curls and when he’d been afraid it had been warm arms around his shoulders. And after she died, it had never sounded quite right again.

Right now, it was moving just a little too fast, with the turning of flimsy pages as an accompaniment. It felt nervous and tired, much like he was. 

He turned his head toward the noise, or at least he thought he did. His skull felt filled with water and every breath seemed to cause a disorienting ripple. There was a shifting of fabric and, as predicted, the humming ceased, as he forced his lashes apart. 

Loki, or rather, a Loki shaped blur, sat up from a chair shaped blob. “Syg?”

_ Oh _ . 

Memory flooded him. 

Another surgery. His third, but the first there’d been with someone waiting by his bedside after. Maybe he’d finally be able to walk without his cane for more than a few minutes now. His chest tightened and his stomach burned. 

_ But the recovery and the therapy and the time off and the-- _

“Hey.” Loki was beside him now, in clearer focus. “Do you know where you are? Or are you still asleep?”

He shoved all his anxieties back behind the veil of drugs. “That song,” he murmured, wanting his focus anywhere besides his looming convalescence. 

The man frowned. “You’re really pale.”

Syg watched him blurrily as he stabbed a straw into a juicebox and tried not to look offended when it was held to his face. He lifted his hand to take it himself but only ended up haphazardly batting at Loki’s wrist. 

“Make them turn the drip down,” he huffed. 

Loki laughed and placed the drink in his flimsy fingers. “You’ll wish you were on this good stuff once we’re home and all you have is bottled.”

If he had a clear head he would have saved his fussing for a later time but currently his mouth was working without his consent. “I’m not taking that either.” 

He hadn’t even had the prescriptions filled the previous times. He didn’t intend for this one to be any different and he’d very purposefully avoided that subject before now.

The detective’s brows furrowed and Syg could tell, even as impaired as he was, that the man was struggling not to bitchslap him with his superior reasoning. “Drink your juice, professor.”

He’d lifted the aforementioned beverage maybe half an inch before a particularly odd pattern in the panel-ceiling caught his attention. It looked like the freckles on Loki’s cheeks, specifically the ones over his left cheekbone. His vision blurred and he blinked to focus, turning his head just enough to notice the window. The curtain had been pulled back and the city lights glimmered like gemstones in the lantern light. 

Syg very much enjoyed the shine, but like most things he loved, they brought with them a certain sadness, too. Could nothing ever just be untainted? He wanted to remember precious stones without feeling a sense of homelessness and to enjoy his mother’s favorite melody without the sensation of hot blood on his hands. How long until Loki, too, was painful? How long until-- 

Hot temper cut through the haze as he realized the drugs had left him defenseless. He didn’t want to think about these things and without access to his higher thinking he was vulnerable. The pain was better. It was sharp and consumed all else. He’d rather it hurt to move than hurt to think. 

He glanced down at his arm and then quite sloppily yanked the iv out of it. This resulted in not only the spilling of his juice-- which he’d forgotten about completely-- but also an outpouring of curses from his partner-- who he had also forgotten about. 

“For fuck’s sake could you just once in your life not be a stubborn bastard?” the man hissed, appearing near his now bleeding arm. “You just had rods put in your tibia. Trust me, you want to be high.”

“I can’t think,” he snapped. 

“Yeah, well now you won’t be able to sleep or eat, either.”

“I couldn’t even lift a juice box.”

“Well, I tried to help you--”

“I don’t want your help!” No. That was a lie. He wanted it desperately. He just did not know how to accept it. 

The stricken look on his lover’s face as words made contact was sobering and abruptly all of Syg’s excuses were meaningless. 

Loki stopped fussing over his ruined port and lifted his chin. “If you don’t want me here, Syg, all you have to do is say so.”

“That’s not…” He didn’t know how to do this and his head was still full of cotton. 

“Your heart stopped.”

The air soured. “What?”

“You had a reaction to the anesthesia and your heart stopped.”

Suddenly the dark circles beneath his lover’s lower lashes were too blatant to overlook, the chrysoberyl irises above them dull and broken and dangerously fragile. 

He struggled to sit up, room spinning as he did so. Loki made no move to stop him. “Come here,” he breathed, reaching out. 

The man’s nostrils flared and he gave a short shake of his head before walking briskly out of the room.

Panic chased the rest of the haze away. “Loki?”

Fuck. 

He flailed sloppily, fighting the bedrail even knowing he couldn’t get up by himself. He didn’t have crutches or his cane. He didn’t even know where his cellphone was. If the man left, there’d be no way to get him to come back. The machine next to the bed started alarming as his heart-rate soared and he yanked the finger-clip off of his hand. This did not stop the wailing, merely changed the tune. 

Despite knowing he couldn’t go anywhere, he shifted toward the edge of the bed, feeling, for the first time since he’d woken, the lower half of his body. And  _ fuck _ . 

The pain shot up his spine and stole his breath, forcing him to put his head in his hands to stop the room from toppling sideways. He slumped back into the pillows, arms shaking, tremulous fingers weakly tangled in sweat-damp curls, emotions tangling with physical feeling in such a way that gave taste to color.

_ Stupid. _ He was stupid and selfish and... damn near swooning. 

His mouth was bitter with bile and Loki long gone, but he didn’t have the energy left to do more than swallow thickly and listen to his pulse pounding in his ears. 

What if he’d finally driven the man off? What if that had been the last straw? Loki had tolerated so much from him already, more than he realized, apparently. 

His heart had stopped. He’d died. What lengths had been taken to bring him back? Had Loki known something was wrong when it was happening? Surely when things had taken too long, he’d imagined every worst-case scenario down to the scalpels. How long had his lover waited for news? How long had he been afraid?

And the first thing Syg had done after all of that was throw a tantrum. 

The noise stopped. There were hands on his body. Someone shushed him kindly. Not Loki, though. 

Time blended together, the scenery all ruined like fingers drawn through a wet oil painting. When it settled there was an IV in his arm again, and a bedpan in his lap. 

He didn’t remember asking for it. 

When he took a breath the air seemed overly crisp. It took a few more blurry seconds before he realized he had tubing secured beneath his nose, offering him pure oxygen. 

The curtain had been pulled around his bed, hiding him from the doorway beyond. He turned his face and found, much to his dismay, that the window, too, had been covered. 

Worst of all, Loki wasn’t there. The chair beside the bed was empty and that somehow made, not only the room, but the world much too small. 

_ It’s okay.  _ Because he’d been alone before. Here in this same hospital.  _ So, it’s fine.  _ He would just buzz the nurse’s station and ask if they could pull the curtains back. Maybe they could find his cellphone for him, too.  _ Everything was okay. _

His hand shook and the call button blurred behind an odd sheen he couldn’t quite rid his eyes of. But then there was the soft  _ click _ and  _ whoosh _ of the door opening, followed by a low, irritated snarl.

“ _ Told _ them not to do this,” he heard Loki grumble just before long fingers curled around the curtain edge.

It felt as though that second between Loki entering and the pulling back of the fabric lasted an eternity, but his apology was instant. As soon as the fae appeared from behind the curtain, the words spewed out, slurred and choked. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

_ Pathetic. Pitiful. Desperate.  _

He couldn’t care. 

The drugs had taken away his defenses and this time he gave in. He’d been alone before, yes. He’d been broken and abandoned and addicted. He’d survived all of that. But, in that moment, and maybe every other one too, losing Loki felt like a fall he wouldn’t get up from. 

Loki gave him a long look and then lifted a hand, showcasing the to-go cup and paper bag he was carrying. “I just went to get coffee.” 

“I thought…”

“I meant for you to,” the man breathed. “That was unfair but feelings aren’t logical. I managed mine poorly.” The bag was deposited on the overbed table. “I’m sorry, too.”

Syg relaxed back into the bed and watched Loki go to the window and shuck the curtains away from the glass. There was more to say, but he had enough intuition to know that they were both too exhausted to tackle a real conversation right now.

Still, the silence felt weighted and he was heavy enough as it was. He tried to think of things to say, something other than more apologies, but his muddy mind came up with nothing. 

Thankfully, Loki was functioning. “Were you sick?”

Oh, yeah. The bedpan. Syg looked down at it and then set it aside. “Not sure.” He ran his tongue across his teeth. His mouth was uncomfortably dry but not bitter. “The nurses came in but I don’t remember much.”

The man’s frown deepened and green eyes swept the floor. “Well--” usually nimble fingers fumbled with the brown bag “--I brought you one of those everything bagels you like from Dunkin’. And coffee, but you should have water first.”

“Okay.”

A ginger brow perked. “No argument?”

As much as he wanted coffee, the desire to appease his partner was greater, so he shook his head and murmured tiredly, “not a one.”

Loki stood there a moment, just looking at him, and Syg did not miss the concern creasing the corners of the man’s eyes. Was he so pitiful a sight? Perhaps if he sat up, he wouldn’t appear as boneless as he felt. 

He shifted his attention to the bedrail and the buttons there. The thing made a ridiculous noise as it raised and he laughed.

“Something funny, professor?” Loki inquired, positioning the overbed table across Syg’s lap.

“ _ Something _ ,” he replied, “though I couldn’t tell you what.”

The redhead pushed a straw into a large, lidded hospital thermos and handed it to him, not letting it go until he’d taken it firmly in both hands. 

It felt like it weighed ten tons, but it was big enough that he could rest it against his sternum, which took most of the shake out of his arms. The first sip hurt. It was cold and spread through his chest like frost over window-glass. His stomach clenched at the contact and he must have looked distraught because Loki lowered the bedrail and sat down beside him. 

“Okay?” the man questioned.

His first instinct was to pull away from the unnecessary attention, but he quashed the urge and nodded, taking another long pull from the straw before resting his head on Loki’s shoulder. Loki’s whole body seemed to melt at the contact and the man let out a shaking breath, as though he’d been holding it for hours. 

He dared to take a hand off the thermos to thread condensation damp fingers with his lover’s. “Thank you.”

The detective brushed a thumb over his knuckles. “You’re welcome.”

Syg had heard the smothered emotion in the man’s voice, had felt it’s muddy ache in his own throat. “I’m okay.” 

“I know.”

“And so are you.”

“Yeah.”

He let it be at that. There weren’t any other comforts he had the strength to give and though he’d only been awake for a few minutes, he felt wrung out. Loki’s solid presence was not helping. The man was warm and smelled like home and the sound of his steady breathing became a metrognome Syg could not resist. 

“That song,” he breathed, wanting to fend off slumber, if only so he could enjoy his partner’s presence a moment longer.

Loki took the thermos from him and set it on the table. “What song, professor?” the man questioned fondly, shifting them gingerly so that Syg could rest comfortably against his side.

“The one you were humming earlier,” he clarified, “do you know what it’s called?”

Long fingers raked through his curls and the man’s answer was whispered against his forehead. “No. What is it?”

“Don’t know.” He supposed it had been too much to hope. 

“You hum it all the time,” the detective observed. “I thought you’d made it up.”

“You learned it from me?” And shit, he really hadn’t meant to sound so disappointed.

“Yeah.” A strong arm firmed around his side, a solid ground in Syg’s floating world. “Why’s it so important?”

“Can’t you deduce it,” he huffed.

“I’d rather you tell me.”

Syg sleepily plucked at a button on the man’s shirt, eyes finally falling closed. “My mother used to sing it to me.” 

He’d never mentioned his mother to Loki before. In honesty, he’d never spoken over her to anyone except for his father when he’d explained why he’d shown up at the mines that day. Magnus hadn’t cared. 

In fact, he’d spat at Syg’s feet and snarled,  _ “that’s what happens to whores.” _ He should have known right then that, that place would ruin him. But he’d been cold and hungry and desperate and so,  _ so  _ stupid. 

“Syg?”

“Hm?”

“I  _ said _ , I’m on the case.”

His brain lagged and he tried to lift his head but Loki’s firm hand stopped him. “Case?”

“Yes, love, the case of the nameless song.”

All thoughts caught on endearment and whatever was left of his sense puddled. He could only manage a muttered, “okay.”

“Now, go to sleep.”

He closed his eyes and turned his face into Loki’s heartbeat, the rumble of the man’s renewed humming escorting him into his dreams.


End file.
